


Close to the Heart

by Kerkerian_StopYulin



Series: All Things Hazard Control [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humor, Johnlock Fluff, Love, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 11:34:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1264978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerkerian_StopYulin/pseuds/Kerkerian_StopYulin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a hopeless romantic, Sherlock not so much. He still finds emotions difficult to deal with at times, but in the end, they understand each other... One-shot, Johnlock, companion-piece to my story "Hazard Control". Set some time after the events of said story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close to the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock.
> 
> Author's notes: This short little story can stand alone, it is however a companion-piece to my story "Hazard Control" and will probably make a little more sense if you're familiar with it.
> 
> I'm not a native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

**Close to the Heart**

 

 

There are eleven things in the flat of 221B Baker Street which Sherlock Holmes would want to rescue from a fire. ( _He'd never have expected himself to be this sentimental._ ) He knows, of course, that the notion is idle, because a real emergency, something earth-shattering, doesn't allow you such luxury. He knows because he's left it all behind once already, due to one man's madness. ( _Jim Moriarty: earth-shatterer._ )

He doesn't want to repeat that. Tries to divest himself from any maudlin emotions he might be fostering ( _ridiculous anyway, to have feelings for a_ thing) but doesn't entirely succeed. He can, if need be, give up his books and microscope, the skull and even the violin. ( _There are doubts concerning the latter, though._ ) However, he realises he could not very easily let go of the selected items which belonged to his grandmother, nor of a few things John has given him on different occasions.

Sherlock briefly considers taking those eleven things to a bank and putting them into a safe deposit box, but that seems pointless. ( _A home doesn't only consist of four walls, John would probably say_.)

The Mind Palace is faulty in that regard: no possibility to lock actual objects away. ( _Haptic memory usually serves as replacement_.)

* * *

After a few days of frowning misery, John gently interrogates Sherlock what's bothering him. The detective is evasive at first, but it's late, he's tired and they're lying on the sofa. ( _Well,_ he _is, head on John's thigh as usual._ ) So he tells him. Predictably, John understands.

"It's normal to be fond of certain objects," he says.

Sherlock huffs: "But that's exactly the problem: they are objects. Not even alive."

"Hang on," John replies, "didn't those eleven things include me?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock rolls his eyes, "you could rescue yourself."

"Huh." John folds his arms. ( _Disadvantageous, since they obscure the view of his face now_.)

"What does that mean?" Sherlock cranes his neck in order to see John, who's pursing his lips. ( _In a not-good fashion Sherlock has seen before. Numerous times_. _With Sherlock being the culprit, inevitably_.)

"John?"

"Yeah, well," the doctor sounds a tad too indifferent when he eventually speaks, "I guess I should've seen this one coming."

"You're offended," Sherlock realizes with honest astonishment. "Why?"

John is tired as well, and he doesn't want to begin an argument. It's Sherlock he's dealing with, after all; despite the way he's changed after his return, he's still remarkably heavy-handed sometimes when it comes to emotions. ( _No wonder that he finds the things-to-rescue issue so difficult._ )

"I'm not offended," John mutters, unfolding his arms and briefly squeezing Sherlock's shoulder in order to appease him, "just tired. Let's go to bed."

* * *

Whatever Sherlock is lacking in personal skills however, he is compensating with his abilities to deduce people. John is especially easy since they're so close, which is the other reason, on top of the other matter, that Sherlock is lying awake that night, mulling things over.

In the small hours of the following morning, John is being woken by a gentle yet insisting shaking of his shoulder.

"Gerroff me," he grumbles, trying to pull the sheet over his head, "'s too early."

"You actually agree with me that you could rescue yourself in the case of a fire," Sherlock says, ignoring his partner's protest.

Eyes still closed, John sighs: "I'm listening."

"In fact, we rescued each other several times already, as you well know," Sherlock continues, talking rapidly. "I did however hurt you because, as irrational as it may seem, it'd be more romantic if I had said something like _you're the first and only thing I'd rescue_. You wanted to hear something different from what I told you, which is why you reacted the way you did."

In spite of himself, John smiles. "Come here," he murmurs, catching Sherlock around the neck with one arm and pulling him close. ( _The detective expertly hides a smirk_.)

"You're right, and you're amazing," John says against Sherlock's temple, "and I'm sorry I distracted you from the original problem."

"It's not a problem any longer," Sherlock replies, feeling his tense shoulders relax as he is being held. ( _John's embrace is warm and reassuring._ )

"It's not?" John sounds as though there's a smile somewhere in the brief question.

"No. I've decided I can live with the risk."

"Oh. Well then. Anything we might learn from that?" ( _John can't but tease Sherlock a little_.)

Sherlock hums contemplatively, obviously turning a deaf ear to the sarcasm: "That we're lucky to have such trivial problems these days, maybe," he says softly, taking John by surprise because he didn't actually expect an answer, and because it sounds rather thought-out. A shiver runs down the doctor's spine, tasting like affection and protectiveness; simultaneously, he's ever so grateful to have this. ( _Sherlock in his arms._ )

He leans his cheek against his partner's soft curls: "Does that mean we can go back to sleep now?"

"Yes." Sherlock sighs contentedly; he's very weary now. "In all fairness, I _would_ probably rescue you first if there ever was a fire," he breathes drowsily, the words ghosting over John's skin with momentary heat. Five minutes later, the detective's finally asleep.

"Sure," John, who's been listening to Sherlock's quiet breathing, mutters good-naturedly, "good luck with that."

( _But the smile on his face only fades once he dozes off again_.)

 

* * *

**The End**

Please leave some feedback, I'd be happy about a bit of response.

 


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